


when i am dead i won't join their ranks (cause they are both holy and free)

by winged_reaperz



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Crying Child, Autistic Michael Afton, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, British English, Canon Compliant, Child Death, Child Murder, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Eggs Benedict is Michael Afton, Guilt, Head Injury, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Michael Afton is Mike Schmidt, Michael Afton is the older brother, Michael Afton-Centric, Murder, Nicknames, No Incest, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Past Violence, Platonic Relationships, Reunions, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Bonding, The Bite of '83, The Crying Child is Named Chris Afton, Trauma, William Afton and Dave Miller and Purple Guy are the Same Person, background characters r mostly nameless OCs, both bc i'm a brit and bc they're the aftons, but also some, entirely bc i needed a name for him lmao, i just project a lot onto mike so i write him when i'm upset oof, i mean. it's a fnaf fic and william is a tagged character lmao, i'm tagging it bc i'm not totally sure that it's established as canon, manslaughter??? maybe???, maybe some implied william/henry at some point, michael was a little shit as a kid but he meant well, mike was a bit of a bully when he was a teen but he's Grown, not directly stated but i said so lmao, teens being teens and fucking up and making mistakes, this isn't a planned fic or anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged_reaperz/pseuds/winged_reaperz
Summary: “I don’t recognise you,” she admits in Baby’s voice, but something in her chest stirs at the way his eyes dart to each window, the way he stills, the dawning look of recognition on his face.[or: Michael Afton finds his long-dead sister in the form of an 8-foot-tall robot that quite possibly wants him dead. He can't say he blames her.]
Relationships: Michael Afton & Circus Baby, No Romantic Relationship(s), The Afton Family - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	when i am dead i won't join their ranks (cause they are both holy and free)

**Author's Note:**

> heyyy so!!! i haven't written fnaf fics in YEARS and this is my first time writing the aftons (outside of a few plotless drabbles abt mike) so excuse any vague characterisation at the beginning  
> this isn't rlly a planned fic, just me feeling out the characters with a vague idea of a story, so updates won't be very fast probably  
> sorry for a short first chapter, but it's all i have written rn, and i thought it was a decent cutoff point - this was originally meant to be a oneshot of the whole story, but i have No Attention Span so yk.  
> i used the name "chris" for CC entirely bc i have no other ideas and that seems to be the fandom favourite name for him
> 
> quick disclaimer that i'm not american, so if anything here doesn't make sense in the setting of america, Whoops, My Bad
> 
> **fic title is from the song "saint bernard" by lincoln**

Elizabeth doesn’t remember Michael well.

She remembers a plastic mask, and the frayed hems of his t-shirts when he cut off the sleeves with dad’s scissors; she remembers teen angst and busted knuckles, and how the only emotion that seemed to show on his face was anger; she remembers a birthday party, him paying more attention to the animatronics than the people, the way his eyes lit up when the fox turned to him in greeting.

But Elizabeth had been awfully young when she’d died, and remembering your childhood is hard enough when you haven’t been torn open and stitched back together all wrong - so she doesn’t recognise Michael Afton, when he crawls through the vents into the circus gallery, far broader and more tired than she’d ever known him.

“I don’t recognise you,” she admits in Baby’s voice, but something in her chest stirs at the way his eyes dart to each window, the way he stills, the dawning look of recognition on his face.

* * *

Michael hadn’t been a bad kid.

That’s not to say that he was necessarily a good kid, either - for all intents and purposes, Michael Afton was a perfectly average son of a perfectly average man, who lived in a perfectly average house with his two perfectly average siblings. He had a perfectly average interest in the pizzeria their father helped establish, and a perfectly average group of equally moody teen friends who would sit at a table with him and glare whenever people told them they were too old.

But you don’t need to be a bad kid to do bad things.

He hadn’t been too bad, at first - the usual grumbling and sarcasm of any kid his age, the same old teen rebellion and problem with authority. Adults would tut at him, but it would be fondly; _“that Michael Afton,”_ they’d say with a smile, and shake their heads at his scowl.

Then Elizabeth died, and something _snapped._

Suddenly, their father wasn’t quite as soft and jolly as he’d always seemed - his face hollowed out, a mix of guilt and rage swirling in his steely eyes, and his usual welcoming smiles seemed more biting. Michael found himself reading into every little twitch in his father’s smile, every bit of underlying frustration and sinister intent that had never quite been evident before.

Chris - the younger brother - cried more and more. He clung to his vintage Fredbear plushie like his life depended on it, and retreated into his bedroom as soon as he got home, all quiet sniffles and careful footsteps. He didn’t insist on playing with Michael anymore, or pestering their father about the plushies at the prize corner - he’d just sit on his bedroom floor, his toys in a ring around him, and tearfully whisper his worries to them at night.

And Michael - well, Michael dealt with things the way that teenage boys deal with everything painful, which is to say incredibly poorly. Teen rebellion turned to outright hatred; the playful, harmless jabs he’d take at his younger brother turned to mockery; the flimsy old Foxy mask he adored so much became a disguise, something to slip into when he no longer wanted to be Michael Afton, the dead girl’s brother, the mad man’s son.

He squeezed rough fingers around the neck of Chris’ Fredbear plush. “Why bother with this little guy, ey, Chrissy?” he grinned. “Why not go for the real thing?”

* * *

He hadn’t been there when Elizabeth died. He had no idea somebody so tiny could hold so much blood.

It was an accident - honestly, really, it was - he’d just been joking around, lifting little Chrissy up to Fredbear’s face, telling him to “give him a kiss, Chrissy! He’s your best friend, isn’t he?” - and then Fredbear had jerked suddenly as something jammed in his throat, and his jaw had clamped shut around Chrissy’s little head, golden fur stained crimson - and Michael, startled, had jerked back, only realising at the sound of screams and the blood coating his fingers that little Chris Afton’s head didn’t usually cave in like that, that so much blood wouldn’t come from just a little nick.

He’d barely processed what was happening before his father was tugging Chris out of his hands, barking orders at employees and customers alike to _c_ _all a bloody ambulance, what the fuck is wrong with you people, call a bloody ambulance-_

-And then Chrissy’s gone in a stretcher, and the pizzeria is still and quiet, and Michael Afton is sat by the stage in silence, staring stunned at the blood coating his hands and staining his shirt, accompanied only by the quiet reassurances of a terrified-looking security guard who had lingered to watch him.

* * *

This security guard, Michael thinks, does not deserve to be here.

In the best possible way, of course - they set a flashlight beside him when they leave the room, loaded with fresh batteries so he won’t be left drenched in darkness. They return a minute or so later with a damp cloth, wiping gently at his hands and dabbing delicately at the stains on his shirt. They’re far too gentle, far too kind - as if Michael were the one bleeding and sobbing, as if Michael were the scared child with the caved-in skull.

“It’ll be alright,” they say, carefully. He doesn’t move to meet their eyes. “Even if- even if they can’t fix him, it’ll be alright, little guy.”

They sling their arm around his shoulders when they sit back down, their soft rasp of a voice going on and on about something beautiful and irrelevant - and Michael’s torn between staring at the bloodied muzzle of the animatronic on-stage, and leaning further into their embrace, feeling worn and tired to his core.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated!!


End file.
